


Remember Me (Not)

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To understand this fic you need some backstory -- about ten years from now (end of Volume II), as an of protection for both, Mohinder and Sylar agree (with reservations) to have their memories wiped and new ones created. This fic starts twelve years after that and finds them living the separate lives that they may have ended up in had they never met. Confused?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me (Not)

_Sometimes, sometimes   
My mind is too strong to carry on   
Too strong to carry on   
When I am alone   
When I've thrown off the weight of this crazy stone   
When I've lost all care for the things I own   
That's when I miss you, that's when I miss you, that's when I miss you   
You who are my home   
You who are my home   
And here is what I know now   
Here is what I know now   
Goes like this..   
In your love, my salvation lies   
In your love, my salvation lies   
In your love, my salvation lies_   
**-Alexi Murdoch, _Orange Sky_**

On the first day of his fifty-sixth year, Mohinder Suresh made the twenty minute walk to his childhood home.

He had become reacquainted with it twelve years earlier after returning from America for the second time in his life. It was the second trip that had made India his permanent home as he cared for his ailing mother. Love had not conquered all however and breast cancer stole her away two years later.

From that day forward he could not rest within the walls that housed the ghosts of his family, yet even leaving he was still drawn back to the fortress of his youth once a month and always on his birthday.

Never breaching the walls he chose instead to take a turn around the grounds. The same pathway each time, he moved along the explosion of complimentary colours. In the maze of invisible steps he had memorized as a young boy, he walked beyond the well groomed garden into the overgrown wilderness of tall grass and weeping trees.

The sweltering Indian sun beat across his back but his steps remain undeterred as he sought out the specific spot. Bringing his left hand up to his forehead to wipe away the glistening beads of sweat that tried to cool down his body he dragged it back through the mess of dark curls, rustling them out of place. The touch of grey at his temples highlighted the distinguished face that had become quite a prominent fixture at the university over the years since his return.

Once, barely a lecture away from being ostracized and defined as a laughing stock, the same curse so carelessly thrust upon his father, Mohinder had eventually bypassed the shortcomings of an unprepared world to enjoy the spoils of one that was more willing to change.

His theories still strange, the ever-growing existence of Specials amongst the general population of the world had lent his work an undeniable credibility. With lectures both scientifically thoughtful and personally fascinating, Professor Suresh, as he was called by voices that dripped with admiration, was known as an eccentric; a rogue antidote to the old guard of stuffed shirts that ruled the university.

He was a favourite with the students, as much with those who did not take his classes as he was with the ones who wrote down his every word as scripture and consumed his speeches with wide eyes to the future. He regaled them all with stories of a man who could fly, a woman who could regenerate, another who could find any person in the world simply by thinking of a name and even a time traveler. He awed them with accounts of super strength and muscle memory, mind control and x-ray vision.

Although his theories were not always well regarded he had earned the high respect of his colleagues and students alike, quite the accomplishment for one who had originally left the university for America under the dark cloud of his father.

Moving beyond the garden he allowed his eyes to take in the bright array of greens, reds, yellows and oranges. A floral fire, the sight alone that surrounded him warmed him as much as the burning sun. A few steps forward and he found his destination, a decent distance to ensure privacy from anyone who may be at home—in his old home.

Ten years in America had changed his life. The absolute danger he had lived with had given him the strength of character to stand firm. The Special people he had met taught him to believe in his own theories even when—especially when—a chorus of dissident voices tried to shout him down.

There had been so many learning curves and he had failed almost as many as he passed. But the outcome, the increasing acceptance of Specials throughout the world, much of it based on his published findings, had been well worth getting his hands dirty.

One of the filthiest mistakes was the unintentional leading of a Special serial killer, his own father's murderer, to innocent victims. Just as quick, however, that parasitic life that had so gluttonously taken on others powers was deservedly snuffed out in New York, much to Mohinder's relief.

That stroke of luck, the time traveler Hiro appearing just in time to smother a potential catastrophe, had been the end of the first lesson. Subsequent teachings with others were just as harsh, but just as necessary.

Mohinder stopped and looked behind from where he came. The house was well beyond the trees and the clearing he stood in was the same as one month earlier, no different to his adult eyes than to those of the six year old boy who had first stumbled upon it. A place of meditation, Mohinder considered it a sanctuary for his mind and body to restfully transcend the planes of his current existence.

Removing his shoulder bag, Mohinder momentarily gave thought to the two birthday cards inside. One was from Peter, who always seemed to remember despite his busy schedule, the other was from Molly, and it reminded Mohinder of the surrogate family thinking of him halfway around the world.

He put the bag down and lay back on the grass with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back and head flat on the ground. Gazing upwards the tall blades of grass tickled the outline of his body while crowding in on him from above. Beyond the tips of green was spread a deep blue sky with a yellow sun manipulating a kaleidoscope of colours upon anything the rays of light touched.

Relaxing as if sinking into the soil below Mohinder brought his left arm up to curve along the ground above his head and rested his right hand along his stomach, on top of the green kaftan shirt that began to succumb to the heat by sticking to his body.

Without the noise of the city to distract his mind Mohinder nestled into the quiet; the slight buzz of nature, the subtle breeze swishing through tree leaves and looming grass that swayed about him, was the only sound of note.

No longer constricted by the here and now, Mohinder's mind was unleashed. It was allowed to wander freely away from the contented happiness of his present life to wherever it chose to go, of its own free will.

The hot sun lulled an invisible blanket around his body and his eyes were made hazy by their unfocused gaze on light speckled grass drifting back and forth across his eye line. His breathing slowed down and his eyes followed, drifting towards sleep.

_Dark eyes._

Mohinder's eyelids flew open and a quiet gasp jumped from his lips. He moved his right hand from his stomach and rested it on his chest, above his suddenly pounding heart. The sensation that ran through him was not frightening however it was a body rush that induced a surprised smile. Calmed breathing returned and Mohinder's eyes fluttered close.

_Lips twisted in an enticing smirk._

Mohinder's eyes faintly opened but shut again. He drifted further towards the subconscious while his body reacted with the impulse most natural and instinctive. A flipbook of images incoherently played out in front of him, around him, on him.

_Soft hands, firm grip, trailed up the contours of his body.   
_  
A shiver gave way to goose bumps along his skin.

_Hot wet kisses marked his stomach.   
_  
Mohinder shifted uncomfortably yet wantonly as he felt himself stiffen. His breathing became labored again, settling into a heavy rhythm.

_Hard wall, rough against his back captured the desperate insistence of the bodies braced against it. _

Two pairs of hands grasped and clung with urgency.   
  
Mohinder's right hand dropped down along his body to the growing hardness in his pants. A soft palming atop the material at first, it became gradually more insistent, rubbing a circular motion while he pushed down. The textured friction of skin and cloth pressed together hard, with purpose, caused his breathing to speed up slightly.

_Swollen lips coaxed his. _

A hand stroked him encouragingly and he rested his forehead against a thundering chest that held him up.   
  
A hushed moan, Mohinder licked his lips. Harder, he rubbed himself.

_Twisted sheets soaked with sweat, grabbed and clutched at.   
_  
Mohinder's breathing hitched in his throat.

_His legs wrapped tight around, pulling closer, holding in. _

A hand ran along the skin and rested on his thigh, gentle then hard the fingers pressed in, then gentle again.   
  
Mohinder led himself to the edge.

_A light hand caressed his cheek.   
_  
A smile skipped along Mohinder's lips.

_A low rumbling exaltation, "Mohinder," wanting and needing, urging and declaring—caring—filled with— _

"Mohinder."   
  
A soft groan escaped Mohinder's mouth as he stepped back from his impending release, delaying the expected gratification for a more suitable time. It was a trick he had learned many years ago, after a few nearly embarrassing missteps. Being caught unable to clean himself up was a good motivator.

Mohinder waited for his heart to settle, but his soaked skin gave away the efforts of the last few minutes. He rested his right hand across his stomach again and opened his eyes to the sky smiling down on him.

He had not realized that day would be one of _those_ visits to this spot. Of the twelve or so trips a year there most resulted in meditative contemplation, a brief nap even. But three or four became something else altogether.

There was nothing distinguished enough in the details to lead Mohinder to lend credence to it being any more than some cerebral construct. He imagined the dream-like fantasy was an amalgamation of sporadic thoughts and random people he had passed by that his mind had committed to memory. No one person, it was a re-imagining, a creative mix by his mind to relieve built up sexual tension. Not surprisingly, Mohinder reflected, given the unofficially celibate life he had taken up since his father's death.

Slowly Mohinder sat up, his body back to normal, suddenly self conscious of being out in the open. He glanced over his shoulder peering through the blades of grass and sighed with relief at the cover that the trees offered from the house.

After a few minutes he reached for his bag and crossed his legs below him. Opening it he pulled out the two birthday cards and reminded himself to call Molly once he got home. He reread the messages and a smile spread on his face. Putting the cards away he pulled out his lecture notes.

While he perused the words trying to note any changes for the next day his mind was still distracted by the recurring images he had come to accept as some unchanging dreamscape; never an alteration in all the years since they had first started. With a chuckle he blamed the sun for giving him heatstroke.

Mohinder stood up and placed his notes back in the bag which he then swung over his shoulder. He began the stroll towards the house with thoughtful steps leading the way. Mira and some friends had planned a dinner celebration for him that night.

He needed to get ready.

************ ********** ********** ********** **********   
**  
The watch repair shop had become a fixture in the neighborhood for almost a century.

Passed down from a man to his sons and then to the one grandson with whom the familial line of ownership would most likely end, the shop remained as proud an honest and uniquely appreciated business as always.

That day, like any other, Gabriel Gray arrived at eight in the morning and opened his shop by eight-thirty. He would close it at six-thirty in the evening while still working another two hours at his desk, towards the back, with no outside interruptions.

The precision of his work matched the meticulous nature of his mind. Careful and delicate it was also firm and unquestioning. He did not mind the few customers who asked to watch him, showing a piqued interest in how he knew exactly where every piece went, although he preferred the solitary nature of the job that had been passed down to him.

Still, loyal customers were what kept the shop doing moderately well, bringing in beautiful timepieces (even generic ones that made him want to roll his eyes and bite back the lecture about watches being an investment) and advertising for him by word of mouth.

Gabriel kept small talk to a minimum but understood the need to work on his social skills, at Doctor Dehavilland's prodding. Each day Gabriel made an afternoon coffee trip to the café down the street. Like clockwork the same barista waited on him and beyond the typical "Hi, how are you?" Gabriel made the effort to ask and provide more personal, yet still mundane, information.

Twenty years running the shop had come after a brief stint at Bellevue, a period of years which he could not recall with much clarity. According to Dr. Dehavilland, whom Gabriel met with once a week for a routine check, it was the required medication prescribed to him that made his memories so fuzzy. Gabriel came to see it as an unfortunate but unavoidable side effect of ensuring another psychotic break did not occur.

The term "delusional" seemed deceptively simple for what had apparently happened when Gabriel was a much younger man. Already unwell, but undiagnosed and unmedicated at the time, the stories of evolved persons had become an obsession for him.

Believing himself to be one of those people, only grander and more enlightened, Gabriel had had a few violent run-ins with innocent people he had considered justifiable targets. Thankfully Gabriel had not hurt anyone fatally although he had inflicted some irreparable damage.

Sadly, the one exception was his mother who had died in an act of self defense on Gabriel's part when she attacked him. His medical history listed her as the parent who had passed on the gift of mental illness.

Stabilized through carefully administered drugs by Dr. Dehavilland, Gabriel was eventually able to lead a relatively normal life upon his hospital release. There was a complacent serenity to it; not ideal but acceptable. Given his history Gabriel told himself that beggars could not be choosers.

He could not help, however, admiring those who proved to possess the next step of human evolution in their DNA. The increase in stories of those magnificent persons filled him with awe and, like a child again, he imagined what such a gift would entail, what great things he could do.

But that was just his imagination. Reality was filled with miniature pieces and matching tools. The work looked tedious but Gabriel felt pride in fixing what most could not. Inwardly he pretended it was his own special power.

A handsome man of a looming stature in well tailored shirts and pants, his short but messy dark hair and black rimmed glasses suggested the more creative individual who lurked beneath. Gabriel, then, appeared as a paradox; an accomplished watchmaker who did not look the part, at all.

His working glasses in place, Gabriel eyed the piece in his hand using a magnified focus on the complex inner mechanical workings. He had four different timepieces he was working on all at once and one more he expected to arrive the next day, according to the message left for him that afternoon by Edward Miller who ran a watch shop in Brooklyn. The message indicated some trouble he was having with getting the pieces back into working order for a specific watch and his hope that Gabriel would help.

A friendly business rivalry existed between the two, but they helped each other out when possible. Gabriel smiled to himself over the fact that he had never had to send any pieces to Edward for assistance. An unspoken pat on the back, it fed Gabriel's pride in his work.

As serious as he became while focusing on a given timepiece, during the periods in between or when he allowed himself a much needed stretch from sitting all hunched over Gabriel's mind immediately let go of the work at hand and would drift. He would sit back in his chair while the small lamp spilling a beam of light across the desk top created shadows of instruments both rectangular and circular, a collection of altering sizes that played games with his mind.

Sometimes he remembered being a kid and working on an unfixable watch that his dad had given him to fiddle with beneath the shop counter. On occasion Gabriel's mind recalled Sunday lunches after church, eating bland but cooked with care food while both his parents discussed boring grown up topics. Other times his mind would fill to the brim with clock innards, clicking into place, smooth and jittery, old and new, all interconnected in some strange Frankenstein-like creation that intrigued him. He could never figure out how exactly the contraption worked, but in his mind it seemed to exist with no question.

He removed his glasses and placed them on the desk. Staring at the fuzzy lines with strong shapes at their centre Gabriel journeyed into a daydream.

_A smile, bright and beautiful; for him.   
_  
Gabriel jerked his head and briefly awakened his mind from being sidetracked. With his left hand he rubbed his temple while resting the elbow on the desk. Partially hunched over, his right hand rested flat across the desk.

His eyes hovered, half open.

_Heated breath against his ear and a hint of stubble brushed his skin.   
_  
Gabriel cleared his throat and his stomach jumped.

_Dark curls tickled his bare skin as a kiss, soft then insistent, found his jugular.   
_  
Not totally unexpectedly, since the daydream had visited him infrequently but still a handful of times each year, Gabriel felt the hardness that stretched against his restrictive pants, growing. He kept his right hand on the desk, his left hand resting tenderly along his temple.

_A tongue traveled his skin along the collarbone.   
_  
An appreciative murmur wrestled itself from Gabriel's lips.

_His erection set free from behind the zipper of his jeans, it was instantly enveloped by a wet hot mouth.   
_  
Unexpectedly Gabriel whimpered; his excitement barely contained.

The pressure in his pants tormented him perfectly as he began to throb with the tension created by rubbing against the stretched material whenever he moved his body, no matter how subtly, on his chair.

He could feel his heart racing in his chest.

_His hands fisted dark curls, gently urging upward.   
_  
Gabriel felt the groan building up at the back of his throat. His breathing slowed and he bit down on his bottom lip.

_Strong hands clasped his, fingers intertwined.   
_  
Gabriel fought to not touch himself, to not speed up the conclusion of his desperate want. Rather he let the flickering images and his awkward strained position do the work.

_Legs encircled his waist and an indescribable tightness held him close as he pushed and thrusted.   
_  
He shifted again in his seat and brought himself closer to his climax. His breath continued more rapid and shallow.

_A lean, glistening chest pressed up against his.   
_   
_Warm eyes. _

A finger traced down his face and across his mouth.

Lips took his.

Gabriel's groan sputtered out and he felt the twitch as he came in his pants, panting in a hushed tone.

_A smooth accented voice, pled insistently with desperation and longing, _

"Remember."   
  
A rushed intake of breath and Gabriel's eyes opened, hooded with an uncertain lustful want. Images were forgotten as abstractions in the split second.

Two thoughts slammed into Gabriel at once while he put his regular black rimmed glasses back on. He would have to clean up the mess he had made and the phone was ringing.

Standing up quickly he headed to the bathroom in the back. Undoing his pants he lowered them just off his hips. He unrolled a handful of toilet paper and wiped himself clean, flushing the evidence away as he made himself more presentable to no one other than himself. Washing his hands he took a moment to examine himself in the mirror.

Despite not being able to make out any specificity by way of a face, Gabriel knew the pieces were all part of one dream. Dr. Dehavilland had explained that the medication made his dreams, fantasies as the case was, much more vivid than they would normally seem. He explained to Gabriel that it was a normal need to experience and release sexual tension and to construct a very precise image to go along with it.

At least that was his diagnosis about ten years earlier when Gabriel first shared the vague details of those specific daydreams. For awhile Gabriel continued to share the hazy details with the doctor, but besides the answers always being the same (since the images never changed), Gabriel came to view those times he spaced out as personal and unnecessary to invite anyone else into.

In all actuality it had seemed fitting. He was a bachelor his entire life and never felt the allegedly normal desire to be in a relationship. Watching couples in love walk by did not inspire the same craving in him.

His daydreams were the closest thing to that want, and in themselves they also sufficed in quenching any yearning. In a way it made Gabriel feel self-sufficient and self-reliant, needing nothing more but his own mind.

With a happy sigh Gabriel walked toward the front of the shop. The light on the phone behind the counter was flashing. Someone _had_ called. Gabriel dialed in and listened to the message.

"Hello Mr. Gray. This is Rosetta Vasquez. I brought in a watch on Monday and you said I could get it back on Saturday. Unfortunately it looks like I'll need it back by Friday. Would it be a problem for me to get it a day early? I'm so sorry for the short notice. Please give me a call. My number is 555-0734. Thanks!"

Gabriel hung up the phone and walked back to his desk. Rosetta's watch was third in line to be fixed and he had planned to start it the following day. Briefly he entertained the thought of calling her and saying there was no way he could make the new deadline. But with no one to go home to and that seedling of a challenge she had planted in him with the new end date, Gabriel smiled to himself.

He picked up her watch and looked at it closely. He could tell that the piece would be as good as new with a few hours of work, a couple of hours if he could focus with no interruptions.

With a contented sigh he sat down at his desk and shifted his tools around. He adjusted the lamp for maximum light. Switching his normal glasses for his working ones he hunkered down to get started.

Gabriel would call Rosetta the next day with the good news that her watch was already completed and ready for pick up. 

 

 


End file.
